Logan Fry

Awash in rose flame lures
private contexts to its pen
where likeness is a formal
due tears risk in becoming
aware mere is loss in form
          I am ward of Plainness I take
pains against denouement
I wipe wetness into shapes
alight and vain in toxic oil
a frame it happily absorbs
as fable is breath’s subject
I splinter
just so a dint of tenderness
Greco’s easels kindle nicer
finer dry meager as surface
meant idle not dire but fine
in turf is fine I dab the fake in places